Silencing the Lamb
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Damien always lusted for power, and learning to control his blood was a novel feat. But while he originally intends to test his new skills on his favourite American Immortal, he finds himself distracted by the one he intends to marry. Damien changes his plans to take the lamb. Kenny/Kyle, Damien/Kyle. WARNING CONTAINS GRAPHIC TENTACLE RAPE. Birthday Gift for Courtanie.


**Warning : This story contains non-consensual sex** (with tentacles). If you are triggered or uncomfortable with themes of rape, do not read beyond section (vi). The previous sections include a consensual sex scene, but **(vi) afterwards depicts graphic rape and immediate psychological effects**. Please do not read this if you fear that you will be triggered by this, because _your safety is more important than my writing._

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i.

The most powerful of magic, of all forms discovered by Man and by Angel, by Nephilim and by Demon, is the one of blood. The very medium used to seal the Covenant, the flows down the vein of Noah to Abraham to Moses to David, and all of their children, owns the power of defying God just as much as it does to bind Him. The essence of the living, that animates and moves, that rushes and bleeds, possesses unfathomable potential, a constant fountain.

Such power enthrals Damien, far more than the perpetual doldrums of the Hell he's slated to rule one day. Scars upon the flesh, no matter how deep, are ephemeral, with the tormented souls nursing such wounds merely screaming out of routine, the novelty of authenticity worn off after a few eternities. Barrages of abuses devolve into monotony, carving out already hollow thralls, their once genuine lamentations becoming ambient noise spoken out of habit. When people break, the fun of torture fades, with even the sharpest of tools too dull to slice or stab or cut with satisfactory result.

Yes, Hell is a place of eternal damnation, but there's one singular torture plaguing Damien, incessantly, fervently, unyieldingly: _boredom_. The true bane of his existence is the sulphuric ennui, rotting him from the inside out. The laws set in place at the universe's conception, that bar him from walking freely amongst the mortals without severe limitations—supernatural abilities draining so easily, being drawn back to the realm beneath after a few short cycles of the night, name forever synonymous with some horror franchise that rose with the sensationalism of Satanism—and rob him the power to unleash havoc akin to Gomorrah, uphold the antiquated ideal of balance.

 _Bullshit_ is the correct term, in Damien's opinion, as the so-called omnipotent ones clearly know nothing of progress, saturating stagnation in flowery language, proclaiming the apocryphal notion of such stasis being natural. The only thing natural is the stupidity founding such laws, that enslave the realms, stunting growth. But a catatonic existence is not one Damien will tolerate, will lead.

Most would give up, accept the guttural dirt forced down their throats, prostitutes to the uncaring celestials, but not the Second Prince of Darkness. No, his birthright deprives him of such virtues gifted to the mortals, to dumb and numb them; he instead starves below the crusts of the Earth, hungry for the power to bring for a grand _revelation_. And even his father, seemingly, has succumbed to the sickening lull, diseased as he advises Damien to wait, wait for his time, one forever in the horizon's morrow, never meant to arrive. The reality of this little white lie, these pretty words fed by a parent to a child until they vomit and turn disillusioned, poisoned Damien, in another way. Now his throat burns, stomach never fills, yearning for the power to overtake. This affliction has turned him gluttonous and prideful, lusting and greedy, envious only towards those whose powers still exceed his and wrathful beyond the conceptions of all spirits and shadows alike. He chooses to call this _ambition_.

Such _ambition_ , requiring something to feed on, as maggots do a decaying corpse, brought him to the studies of sorcery, cultivating the alchemy failed by experts and the occult explored by novices. While not a cure for his malaise, with each achievement wetting his tongue and driving him further into his researches, magic provides something therapeutic, staving off the lassitude otherwise bountiful in the underworld, as he corrects the mistakes made by humanity in their sloppy and haphazard dabbling in the arts.

For millennia, the enlightened fools dotting the sweeps of mankind have explored the various crafts, their findings penned in hundreds of tongues, experimentations performed on all parts of the globe. And each scroll he pours over, codex he leafs through, with their incantations in Egyptian or chants in Sumerian, contain the same primal and rudimentary desires that warm a Damien's obsidian heart, coals savouring the shows of the flame. Words on sheets of papyrus, stretches of hide, pages of vellum, all inspire him. His lips can form the words of the spells and curses, speaking them with fluency in Aramaic and Hebrew, in Latin and Greek, in languages known and languages lost. Even if the humans made such clear and obvious errors, bumbled their way with _hocus pocus_ and _abracadabra_ , all cultures have a commonality, which appears again and again: _blood_.

And what blood could possibly hold more power than that of the Antichrist?

ii.

The cloth wrapping his tools is sewn from asbestos, impervious to the fires licking the walls of Damien's stony chamber, and toxic to those who are burdened with mortality. The metal inside clanks, iron chattering in anticipation of what their wielder will test them with. A smile of ease comes to Damien's face, at the music of knives, a soothing prelude to his latest scheme, like the orchestra tuning their instruments just prior to an impressive symphony. And this is just _practice_ , to make sure it _works_. Not that he's ever _failed_ before; he merely tests the non-existent limits of his confidence in these sessions, so his creativity can reign supreme when he exercises his mastery upon a true subject, necessary foreplay for the most coveted act.

He slides his fingers along the slab of ebony stone, as he strolls along its length. His nails, sharpened into claws, screech as they drag across the sleek surface, etching a trail and tarnishing the reflective top. Here, here is where he does his greatest work, atop this table made from rock, which he drew out from the floor with one of his earliest forays into spellcraft. A simple conjuring, this was, taken from a Far Eastern text printed in three different scripts, only frustrating because of the significance in tones when reciting. The slab may not look much, but it symbolises the lengths of Damien's studies, the extent of his progression. To commemorate his earliest milestones, he uses this as his workbench, the platform for his most valued experiments.

The stone absorbs the scratches made, surface healing as the claws wander, tracing rigid lines and angular shapes. The repair bewitchment, fetched from a tome dating back to the Bronze Age, proved necessary after Damien's absentminded scratching corroded the gloss, in his beginnings; rather than fix once and learn to control his habit he applied a more lasting solution, which allows him to continue his passive destructions. The sound of his nails melds so beautifully with the clinking metals.

A smooth exhale leaves his nostrils, reminiscent of a dragon puffing out breaths of smoke. His lungs then fill, with the ashes of the inferno, cinders igniting his bones with a sense of excitement, one he cannot find anywhere else in the vast expanses of Hell, only within his own study. The torches mounted on the walls provide dim orange glows, enough light for Damien, with eyes acclimated to the dark, to see just fine. His collection of books sit packed in nooks, their shelves a part of the wall, shaped by Damien himself to accommodate his prized relics. Shadows dance, with the movement of the flames, and even though this place is no more than a dank grotto, here he feels at home, in his oubliette hideaway. Call him old-fashioned.

His fingers meander, tracing angular designs, and Damien's eyes carefully move to the stone. He catches his reflection, in that moment, a glimpse of the mastermind. He stares into eyes of coal, unable to see more colour than a tinge of crimson; but like coal, his eyes smoulder with fire, and as the passion flares within, his irises erupt in carmine blazes, the kindling of sin making the red of more pronounced. In his calm, the coals are cool embers, merely vowing to turn luminous; and they will, as they always do. From the locks of pitch hair, the tips of his horns poke out, grey bone raised like smoky granite amongst haematite clusters. While not as ostentatious as the Renaissance artists dreamt them, he still owns them, another inheritance from his dear old dad. His smile slackens his jaw, lips parting to reveal his alabaster teeth, fangs sculpted on both tiers. The lower ones, less prominent, bookend his mouth, the real ones next to his pointed canines. His uppers glint, his slight overbite giving them more spotlight, the enamel shining with saliva. Together, six serrated teeth, a reverse of his mother's mouth, the grin of a jackal.

He can make himself appear more human, use illusions to make his horns disappear and his fangs sink into dental normalcy. But he only does that amongst the humans, on those rare occasions he strolls the earth and dreams of how he might make it burn, using reservation only so his germinating plans might not be uprooted before they can even take hold. But here, amongst the disfigured and damned, he can let his monstrous side show, embrace his status as the Son of the Devil.

He lifts his claws from the stone, as he turns the corner of the slab. He tongues over his bottom lip, a ravenous burn in the back of his throat, one that cannot be quelled by consumption of any food or drink. As the wounds seal, Damien sets down his parcel. Metal clanks as cloth meets stone, a sound that echoes for a moment. The fire of the torches crackles, as Damien gingerly unfurls the cloth, lays out his tools. The coarse cream conquers smooth black, Damien counting under his breath as one-two, three-four, five-six, seven daggers reveal themselves upon his table.

The seven daggers of Megiddo, retrieved from a _tel_ in the north of Israel, rumoured to be the one force that could kill him. Of course, that was perpetuated by some hack's screenplay, a _Jew_ writing about the goddamn _Antichrist_. Oh, the endless irony, one that would inspire Christian conspiracy theorists for decades. Authorship aside, the research was, for the most part, accurate, even if a few liberties were taken for sake of Gregory Peck. Rather than being the weapon of his demise, they are of his _rise_ ; these daggers _belong_ to him, a symbol of Armageddon, not Rapture. Handles adorned with a tortured and bound man, hole through his chest, and smelted from metals reaped from a comet's remains, astronomically unique in every way, they were made for _his_ use, not a _messiah's_. No, the only one coming is _him_.

His heart skips, pulse quickening as excitement rushes through his veins, like a youth in love. Yes, he is in love, with the promise engrained in the stiletto blades, the boundless opportunities they possess. With their potential and his prowess, he can take his place on the universal throne, reigning supreme over all the realms, far sooner than the idiotic angels have predicted, his time nearer than his father's dreary assurances. His fingers glide over the cloth, threads like waves under his skin, feeling their fibrous crests and troughs.

He presses his tongue to the palette of his mouth, letting a sharpened nail tap the man chiselled on the handle. His claw traces over the face, digging in the pinched cavities of his eyes, the slender line of his nose, the etched mouth hanging in horror. Already he feels the connection, the one they share, as destined companions, fated to do the work of the wicked. They are extensions of his will, performing his work, just as the prophets of the Biblical ages did for God when they acted His mouthpiece. But these intermediaries of his use methods far more effective than mere words, for their fierce edges instil his will with far more efficiency. Why open the mouths of worthless humans so they can spout commands upon deaf ears when their flesh can be opened and their blood spray for the masses to see and to fear? Tangible shows get results, and few things compel a mortal more than pain, than the sight of their own mortality threatened before their own eyes.

He takes the first dagger in his hand, the contours of the lamenting sculpture pressed tightly to his palm. As he depression lingers in the cloth, from where it once sat, as Damien lifts the blade. He scans over the metal, occasionally catching his own reflection, gleams of his reddening eyes. These types of knives were meant to stab, not cut, impale and puncture the gut, the heart. But their tips, sharpened to such a precise point, can pierce flesh and bone. Damien just needs them to break the walls of blood vessels.

He brings his free hand to his mouth, clicking his tongue as his wrist hovers before his lips. Start with the arm, he tells himself, for this session. But first, he bites the edge of his long sleeve, the hairy fibres between his front teeth, and drags it down. As the black fabric bunches at his elbow, more and more of his arm revealed, he keeps his eyes on the dagger. Then, he releases, letting out a sigh as he stretches his arm out, the pale underside of his arm exposed. He feels the blood coursing through him, contained in the networks beneath his skin, trapped. And with this knife and a few words, he can grant freedom.

The stiletto ghosts over the vessels, Damien guiding the blade over the twists and turns of his veins. The tip doesn't touch him, but its very presence changes the flow, calls the blood to the roof of his vessels, ready to clot and clog if only to be close, close to that force. The curious movement within titillates, Damien toying with the mechanisms of his own form. Immortals, unhampered by the trifles of humanity and fears of death, can truly immerse in the fascinations, revel in the beauty of their discoveries. He follows the paths amassed in his muscles, tilting his head as he feels the currents of his veins alter, shift, defying their natural state.

Something to do with the cosmic metal, he recalls, as he lets the blade hover over his wrist. They share sanguinary connection, his blood only enchanted when no obstacles separate the metal and his skin, and only influenced when in intimate proximity. The tip stares down at a protruding line of blue, thick and swelling, yearning to burst and meet the metal, create a sheath of iron. A grin teases at the corners of his mouth, as he recalls the incantation, the one that might transfer the power haematic manipulation from the daggers to himself. Controlling blood—the Blood of the Beast—would make him truly unstoppable, able to extend beyond bodily limitations, and transform them into weapons of his own imagination.

" _Te'ahm et ha'dahmee_ ," He speaks, with each word deliberate. The preface of the incantation he modified from another source, and translated into the language of the daggers, so they can hear and understand. For if they can perform such wonders, they must possess some sentience; anything meant for Damien's use had to be just as intelligent as he, " _V'shaleim et ha'minchah_."

He closes his eyes, mumbling out the remainder, voice so low the torches' crackling rivals his words. But the dagger hears, listens. The handle warms within his grip. Not to burn, but to permit, allow his skin to absorb their gift, take it as his own. With every word uttered, Damien feels a heat grow inside, starting in the cavities of his ribs, then radiate throughout, spread. A fever's spectre, bleeding into his bones, integrating with the marrow; Damien does not falter in his words, tongue still at work as the back of his throat burns. The searing, that means it's working, means his body is preparing, preparing to embrace the dagger's favour.

" _Tan lee_ ," He opens his eyes, staring into the dagger's glint, professing his request. When one works with magic, there's always an exchange. Something is given, something is taken, and so long as things are equal, they remain. His hand tightens, steadying as it readies to stab, " _Ha'Coh'cha_."

The fires blink, and he plunges the blade into his vein. Not even the embers on their charred perches smoulder, Damien dragging the blade down his arm, in total and complete darkness. In that moment, shadows robbing him his sense of sight, he feels no pain, only heat. The dagger plays needle, injecting him with fire, so every single vessel—from the strongest artery to the narrowest capillary—floods with its burn, burning power.

The might fuses with his cells, as he becomes a furnace. His body soaks in the power vested, blood soon boiling; it no longer clamours for the blade's caress. His mind fills with smoke and, right then, he can only describe this devouring heat as euphoric. This is euphoria, having every facet of his being saturate with an alien force, one that reconstructs and improves his body, sharpens his mind. The warmth ebbs from dagger, heat dispersing throughout him, and he knows its power is his, _his_.

He tears the dagger from his flesh, and torches flicker back to life, resurrecting their blazes. They'd given Damien privacy, but with the contact severed, they look to see what this union has truly brought about. Such spells as these, after all, were not made for servants of light to gaze upon, their deeds intended for the darkness.

Damien first looks to the dagger, examining its blade. Black stains the tip, his blood decorating the blade as ink does a quill. A streak rolls down, quick and heavy, rushing towards the handle, to his hand. No longer does his blood seek the metal, now it longs for his own skin. The blood dribbles, falling to his fingers, painting a line parallel to his knuckles. Then, hesitation, reaching the point where gravity might take over, but still invariable drawn to the flesh; symptoms of success.

His eyes shift, to his own wound, gazing at the open gash. Despite its severity, dissecting the walls of his vein, not a drop strays from the opening. The flow ceases, stalling in the open air, seeping in the oxygen, as though his blood might change to red. No, no his blood is black as sin, born with him for him to bear with pride, and infect unto others as a he sucks the virtue from their minds. Oh, and with such power at his disposal, he might take his blood to poison others directly, make them drink _his_ blood, eat _his_ flesh.

" _Rise_ ," He commands, voice soft, cooing, maybe even _affectionate_. Such a saccharine tone, used to encourage his sanguine powers, talking to the well of black as though it were a child, needing kind words to be convinced his intentions are not ill. Earn the trust, gain control, and from there he might introduce him malice and teach the ability its true purpose: to kill, to maim, to slaughter.

The blood trembles, in his open vein, rippling at his voice. Immediately, without even a moment of consideration, the first drops levitate. Specks of ebony adhere to his command, his will, other clots soon following suit. They rise, joining together, packing as though they still dwelt within the confines of their stream. From his injured limb grows another, a stalk sprouted from the tear.

Damien smiles, eyes following the burgeoning appendage, a fine ribbon, drifting like a kite caught in a wind, tied down by a child grasping the spool. Blood, that's the key. And his blood, he can produce, endlessly, create more rapidly than it could ever be consume. Now, now he can harness the well within, the boundless supply, and spill his will before him. And there were still _six_ _more_ daggers to lend him their services.

The end of his new limb curls, arching overhead. Little more than a tentacle, just a basic manifestation, but even the most simplistic can prove the most beautiful. The limb searches for its master, bending so the tip can touch his face. The blood strokes his cheek, an icy caress, something only a devil could love. And, head leaning into the tender hold, inhaling the reek of raw iron, he feels a version of it, perverting that idea of love with his own corruption, defiling it with his despicable nature, his malevolent dreams.

He twirls the dagger in his hand, sheen just a little lacklustre. Still a stunning instrument, art in its own right, but its appeal fades, in his eyes, with the power gone, in him. His eyes wander, looking away like a man suddenly dissatisfied with his relationship, searching for a new and shiny plaything to distract him, until the process might repeat again, and again. His gaze falls on the other knives, waiting on the table. Soon their power, too, will be his. All of it, _his_.

Why, all that remains after he finishes his deals is finding a worthy _subject_ , to play canvas for his masterpieces. And already, he has an idea, of who he might call upon. Yes, this is perfect. _Just perfect._

iii.

The clacking of the keyboard fills the air, no room for silence between the letters and punctuations, between shift and space bar. The bare white of the spreadsheet illumines the laptop's screen, still glaring even with the brightness at its minimum, only brighter compared to the evening sky beyond the window's glass. Strings of words, typed in ten point Arial, fight to fill the crammed little boxes, claiming more and more pixels as Kyle copies over the information from his notebook, correcting the myriad of errors already existing in the sad Excel document.

No one— _fucking no one_ —could be bothered with revising their shit themselves. Instead, people make their half-ass spreadsheets and toss them over to the _interns_ to double-check, or more accurately _redo entirely_. Maybe at a big name law firm he'd expect this kind of crap, but not a damn _library_ , where one thing miscataloged equates to catastrophe as severe as the apocalypse. Even with a stipend at the end of the week and a fairly outstanding reference for his resume, Kyle wonders just how worth it the headaches and dizziness are. There's only _so much_ aspirin can do.

Strained green eyes squint, peering through the lenses of his glasses—a weak prescription for farsightedness, discovered only last year when the credit card statements started getting blurry—trying his best not to focus on the film of oil, fingerprints still in need of getting wiped away. He fights through the remnants left by his thumb, reading over the notes scrawled in dark ink. After this many hours, meticulously toiling through this tedium, his neatly written letters look illegible, scribbles staining the lines of the yellow legal pad.

Kyle groans, head drooping as he shuts his eyes. His glasses slide down the bridge, the temple tips tugging behind his ears, as the frame precariously balances on the tip of his nose. Stupid things need to be tightened, he thinks, taking a hand from the keyboard. His eyes stay closed, granting them this small break to rest, while he gropes the stacks of papers and clusters of junk. Post-its crinkle and flap, coins clink and clatter, until he finds the edge of a ballpoint pen. A sigh blows through his lips, taking the pen's unclicked end to the frame of his glasses, slowly pushing them back up his nose.

" _Fuckin' perfect_ ," He mumbles, spinning the pen in his fingers, thumb pushing up, forefinger reaching around, and repeating. A repetitive distraction from repetitive work, he thinks, and lets out another grumble, the kind that makes the whole mouth vibrate, earthquake in the oesophagus.

But before he can focus on his throbbing temples, skull collapsing like a condemned building finally getting knocked down, or open his eyes and notice his mug drained of all coffee, needing a refill of more of that _Caffè Verona_ shit Wendy and Stan sent him for Chanukah, Kyle feels warm breath glide over his shoulder, with the softness of a cloud, the gentleness of eventide breeze. Familiar, too, the faint aroma of seasonally released gingerbread beer and burnt dinosaur chicken nuggets wafting in the air, entering his nostrils. Momentarily, the frustration from his busywork vanishes, tension melting when a mouth presses to his bare skin, planting a kiss, tender and sweet. Then, " _How's my sexy librarian?_ "

Relaxation washes over him, smoothing his edges. Jagged stone on a mountain face become rounded pebble in a trickling creek. His lips curve into a smile, Kyle opening his eyes, then opens his lips, "Fine. Done streaming for the night, Ken'?"

Kenny hums, low and long, the kind of purr that works up the throat and makes his lips tremble. His lips tease into a smile, as he drags them along the bone. He leaves behind a light trace of saliva, residue from his tongue, dribbling autograph. The kind of slow kisses he knows Kyle needs, well aware how lingering lips steal his attention, blot out all thoughts of his responsibilities; instead he drizzles his thoughts with affection, syrup he sucks straight from the bottle to mollify his needs.

A breath escapes Kyle's mouth, an airy susurrus slipping through his teeth, buoyant laugh. His head tilts to the side, out of habit, just enough to give Kenny more room to wander, stamp the shape of his lips wherever he can. He remembers how _good_ he tastes, candied tongue and honeyed skin, and sugar in his sweat when they daub damp kisses on each other's naked rubicund flesh. Fucking just the way he likes it: _sticky and sweet_. God, that's just what he _needs_.

His hand quivers, fingers loosening their hold on the ballpoint. The plastic body slides through his grip, as he basks in this, this warmth and tenderness, treat for hard day's work. Kisses peppered endlessly on his skin… and soon enough this'll be the end of _every day_. Before the pen falls, he clenches his hand, into a tight fist, and says to Kenny, lazily, "So wha'did ya play t'night?"

One, two, three, four more kisses, each one inching closer to the hollow of his neck. Air dries the kisses' residue, cooling his skin. The sensation only quickens his heartbeat, a flush gradually dyeing his skin, barely a shade but still measurable. Kenny hesitates, in peeling off his lips, letting a few seconds pass before he lifts his head and licks his lips. He moves his head, so he can talk right into Kyle's ear.

" _Until Dawn_ , stopped after havin' Chris bite a bullet for Ashley," His voice remains casual, menthol cool. He pauses, sneaking in a peck on the jaw, just under the earlobe. Kyle feels the pressure in his whole mouth, with Kenny pushing on the joint, and he pushes his tongue against his teeth. Kenny's lips smack, sound so loud, with him so close, and then he goes on, in a mock whine, "Chat was _sad_ , you didn't come _say hi_."

Kyle rolls his eyes, lets out a languid laugh, "Unlike _you,_ some of us have _real jobs_."

"I do have a _real_ _job_. It's just _playing video games_ ," Kenny, never quite acclimating to the academia scene, pursued a career entertaining the masses, using the thriving communities craving quality gameplay with a decent comedic edge to make his living. His savant status in gaming brought in the first wave of subscribers, but now most followers ask just as much about Kyle as they do about him, some donating specifically for him to make an appearance. A weird off-brand of popularity, radically different from that observed in high school, but something more prosperous; and it isn't so bad that the more than occasional kiss _greatly_ encourages donations, "'Sides, I thought this was an _internship_."

" _What-ever_ ," Kyle lowers the pen down, dangling the tip over the legal pad. He taps once, twice, and lips push against his cheek, wet and hard. He pushes the pen down, makes a dimple in the paper, a crater over an ovular O. A soft moan resonates in his chest, Kyle only half-heartedly trying to suppress it. His lungs feel like pillow fluff, teddy bear stuffing, "I'm getting _paid_."

"Well _I_ get money _too_ ," He can hear the pout in Kenny's voice, knows he's making that stupid childish face he does, when he wants to play innocent and grind on Kyle's nerves. Kenny reaches an arm around him, resting it alongside Kyle's left. His hand finds Kyle's, fingers twisting with his and prying them from the keyboard. He raises Kyle's ring finger, higher than the rest, to show off the sleek band. Two rows of shiny silver, with an inlet of darker metal between, and a single diamond in the centre, like a button: his engagement ring, "I got ya _this_ after all."

Kyle wiggles his finger, the faces of the diamond glittering, without dwarfing the silver's lustre. Took two years of high school and almost three of college, before commitment went from serious as in _shacking up together_ and _fooling around after classes_ to serious as in _sharing health insurance_ and _no testifying against in court_. Hell, _Kenny_ was the one who asked, spending a whole month and a half picking out the ring only to forget it on the day. He borrowed a couple quarters from Kyle, walked to a vending machine dispensing some long soured candies, and used a goddamn Ring Pop to propose. Kyle still isn't sure if he's more shocked that Kenny was the one to spring the question, or that there are actually still machines selling Ring Pops.

"Yeah," He sighs, looking for the ring on _his_ hand. Since Kenny picked out his ring, he insisted on Kyle picking out his, something about keeping things equal, or having him double check that it wasn't going to look _hella queer_. Sure, the guy working at the jeweller's probably called them both that supervising them for a goddamn hour and a half while they went through cuts and prices, but the end result wasn't so ostentatious: a clean silver band, with a one diamond, princess cut. Yeah, Kenny got a load of that one, and so a pair of queens ended up walking out of the store with solitaire bands specially chosen for one another. He reminisces, about that, as Kenny unlaces their fingers, and he misses their hold. He tongues the inside of his cheek, and tilts his head to the side, closer to Kenny. Another kiss on his cheek, hotter than the other ones, either because of the burn of Kenny's lips or the blood colouring Kyle's face, "You getting me _Aspercreme_ for when I write out all the _fucking invitations?_ "

"I can _help you_ ," Kenny says, nuzzling the side of his face. Kyle's glasses skew, off kilter on his face. He closes the eye still protected by the prescription glass, instead watching stray strands of blond peek in and out of his other eye's vision. Really bad for the glasses, but so good for him.

"Your handwriting's _crap_ ," The ballpoint finally slips from his hand, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is the slow turning of his swivel chair, guiding him away from the computer, and the lips moving down, covering every inch of his skin, seeking out his own, "My family's gonna think I'm marrying a _retard_."

"Think they're gonna be more concerned that I don't have a name like _Rachel Leibowitz_ or _Miriam Goldstein_ more than that I can hold _chopsticks_ better than a _pencil_ ," When Kyle's chair faces him, he puts a hand on either arm rest, trapping him in his seat. His head draws back, just before he gets to Kyle's lips, so he can look him in the eyes. Cloudless sky blue gazes at the pure green eyes, with lopsided spectacles, one eye half covered, one hinge stressed by the crimson curls pushing the temple arm farther out. He lets out a short, staccato chuckle, at how damn ridiculous he looks.

Kyle knits his brow, nose wrinkling as he squints his eyes, lets out a soft scoff. He reaches for the ends of the frame, and takes the glasses from his face, folding them with a _tap-tap_. He puts them on the edge of his desk, and, loudly, dramatically, "My mom's _still_ asking when you're _converting_."

Kenny laughs, each dulcet note a little louder than the next. He leans forward, quickly, so as soon as Kyle faces him, his lips hover just in front. Each laugh brings a gust of hot air against Kyle's mouth, the kind that draws him closer to the source. But Kenny dodges him, keeping their lips at the same length apart, determined to only give when he decides. Kyle bites his lip, and Kenny finally subdues his laughter, "Shelia scared of tellin' the _Orthodox_ side that her little _bubeleh_ is marrying some _Catholic fag_ from the _wrong side of the train tracks_?"

A hard blow passes through his lips, Kyle narrowing his eyes. Kenny's eyes sparkle, showing off the genuine happiness warming his heart, the look Kyle knows well; the one he notices when they're out late window-shopping and he, for a second, looks away from Kenny and catches their reflection in the hardware store window, that same look plastered on his own face. He blinks, lets a smile slack his face, and reaches his arms around Kenny's waist. His elbows squeeze against his hips, hands resting on the small of his back. His fingers lightly brush against the thin fabric of his lounge pants, just under the elastic band, so easy to get off, "Considering you're the first _goy_ engaged to a Broflovski _on top of_ this being the first _gay_ wedding _ever_ for them…"

"I'm your mother's _worst nightmare_ ," Kenny finishes, something cocky in his voice, taking pride in the little predicament he's caused. A little predicament that, way back when, in third of fourth grade before those big life events like puberty and those huge buzz words like sexuality held any relevance, would sound _outrageous_. A marvel, really, even now. Wouldn't that bitchy Home Ec teacher _love_ to see him now.

Kyle watches, watches the astonishment flash in his eyes, and sees his chance. With Kenny lost in his own thoughts, dreaming about the realities to-be, he seizes the chance to lean forward, advance his attack, claim his kiss. But before their lips touch, he murmurs, " _Dressed like a daydream_."

 _Feels_ like a daydream, is more like it, he thinks. Because somehow Kenny's lips, despite their roughness, always melt against his mouth, kissing smooth, kissing creamy. No velvet or satin, no silk or bamboo can compare. Not when his mouth offers him haven, safety and comfort, everything he wants, everything he needs. The novelty never wears, only intensifying since their first real kiss, always improving on that very first time when they sat on the thick wooden fence of the cattle pasture, a herd of dairy cows mooing and grazing as they clumsily knocked their noses together, put their lips to one another's, and hoping they wouldn't lose their balance and tumble into a heaping pile of shit.

He smiles, remembering, and parts his lips for Kenny's tongue. His tongue edges further and further into his mouth, and Kyle just thinks about how much _better_ things got after that, between the evening of the prom and the night of the Fourth, the few times in the public restroom stalls and the other few in on the folded down backseats of Stan's car, the last time as boyfriends and the first time as fiancés. Blood rushes, heart beats, and he decides he can call it a night.

Kenny loiters, swiping over the uneven tops of Kyle's teeth, still only considering backing away. So hard, to tear away, when their mouths smoulder, minds smoke. He must remind himself, that he can retreat right back to this mouth, and only when he realises does he lean back, rolling his tongue before he goes. Kyle bites on his bottom lip, begging him to stay, and he hums, soft assurance that he'll come back. When Kyle lets go, he sighs, breath hitting his lips like a smoke ring. Then, he grins, "Your gay ass did _not_ just quote _Taylor Swift_ at me."

Kyle laughs, breathless. One hand takes grabs a clump of the elastic, giving a weak tug. The swivel chair creaks, as the wheels propel him forward, closer. In almost a whisper, "Does this mean my gay ass _isn't_ getting _laid_?"

"Oh you're getting _laid_ ," He says, stern and assertive, that authoritative tone that tells Kyle he has _plans_ ; and those plans _always_ go _well_. Kenny kisses his lip, just the top, going a little high on purpose. A clue, that this'll be sloppy, a calculated mess. Kyle lets the smile curl wide on his lips, as Kenny says the rest into his mouth, " _Right down on the floor_."

iv.

There are those with power and those without. The lines are clear, or at least they ought to be. Such dichotomies keep the world simple, with everything in its own little place, sheep obeying shepherds, men kneeling before gods. But, despite the perfection people claim about the divine forces that govern the worlds, there are glitches, those who spring up in the grey, and don't belong anywhere.

Kenny McCormick is one of those glitches, the one Damien has encountered far _too_ many times, as he pokes in and out of Hell, ventures on occasion to Heaven, and simply sees death as a nuisance that periodically spoils a couple of days before he resumes business as usual up on Earth. Because of some cult, obsessed with Lovecraft and somehow connected to another dimension, he's free of the finality of dying, and the very concept to him is neither finite nor frightening. No, he has some kind of power, a power _squandered_ on him, a fucking useless hick from the backwoods of Middle America.

He didn't hate him, not as a person. He met him once in the mortal world, on one of his first explorations of the land above, and even saw him frequently when he was forced temporarily down below. While he possessed few remarkable qualities, personality just like that of any other human, his naïve disposition and base humour kept Damien entertained, for a time. Until he started seeing Kenny less and less as a typical example of a mortal fool, and more and more as an untapped resource wasting away within a defunct vessel. It was then that the malice began, only festering since, as Kenny's trips became more sporadic and sparse, and Damien's arts became more cultivated and refined. Perhaps, with his own blood as a weapon, he can penetrate where no other spell can, and crack the interdimensional enigma coded in his essence.

Damien stands before his work bench, mulling over the avenues he can take, whether tools or bare hands would best suit this endeavour. Even with the daggers' powers relinquished to him their most basic functions of stabbing and skewering remains entirely intact; of course, the satisfaction of worming his fingers between tendons and soaking his hands in crimson holds a certain priceless novelty. Decisions, decisions, each its own carefully made incision.

The black arm of blood, spawning from his basilic vein, cradles his chin, Damien's head tilted to the side. The sensation along his jawline reminds him of quicksilver, fluid and cold, a comfort to him, virulent to all others. His human arms, the one native to his form, cross over his chest, one finger pensively tapping on his side. His eyes, only a passive garnet in his speculations, gaze upon the cleared off slab, into the reflective stone. His breathing grows deeper the longer he looks.

A contest rages inside him, between his hatred for indecision, and his disdain towards waiting. With the power infused with his cells, he can strike at any time, a snake barring fangs and burrowing his venomous bite into his prey. But acting rashly is folly, well versed in the epics and the unpleasant endings of those who go so boldly for their prize. No, this needs to be a checkmate, one fell swoop and his talons can sink into the mouse, no question who is the victor.

 _Victor_ … No, that frames this too much like a _fight_. Just imagine, a fight between _Kenny_ and _Damien_? An undead underdog and the beast from the earth? A laughable thought, really. Raised in the ghetto or no, any street smarts he has can't measure in the _slightest_ to Damien, the boy born in the lake of fire. Although the thought of him squirming, crying, begging…

Come to think of it, Damien never saw that. Not once. By the time they got truly acquainted, when Kenny's prepubescent brain urged him to take advantage of his mortality loophole and become a true libertine, with sex and drugs and preteen idiocy all on the table, Damien only witnessed his odd mix of annoyance and relief. Annoyed because whatever he did got him killed, but relieved he'd be back up there in no time, able to avoid whatever he did. He made cracks more than anything, about how he was a bona fide dumbass thinking that rushing feeling going to his head was a good thing, or how he knew there was a reason for someone to supervise while tripping, or how he thanked God his body reset and wiped him clean of anything he might've caught.

Yeah, those were the days, when Damien would simper as Kenny prattled, feigning a true mortal friendship, and failing to realise then the possibilities housed in his bones. Naturally, just when he understood the potential uses he could have for Kenny—or more, his powers—the deaths declined. It started a few years ago, about when he would've entered high school, his visits turning rarer and rarer, stopping all together before the boy turned nineteen. When was his last visit here, anyway… 2012 or 2013?

Damien vaguely remembers something from their last—he believes that was their last—conversation in the Pit. Kenny had someone worth living for, or worth avoiding death for, a person he truly cared about and who, astronomically, cared for him, too. Ah, romance, the disgusting triviality Damien never understood. Lust? Yes, that made sense, to sate a primal drive, but things like love? Typical human bullshit. It has no basis in anything reasonable, logical, just a concept concocted by humans to justify sin. Someone got him believing in those pretty things, made him forget the rotten sinner he was. What he called this person, he can't remember, whether Kenny failed to mention or Damien at the time just ignored his idle babble. But in a minute, he'll find out, discover the identity of his little Mary Magdalen.

From his new limb, he sprouts another, a hydra producing another head. His eyes watch the arm slither through the air, rest its tip on the smooth stone. Damien feels the even texture, feeling it through the blood just as he would through his fingertips. His tongue rubs against the back of one fang, mouth dry, parched. His interest is excited, now must be wet.

The end curls, long limb becoming a spiral, a coiled fist. It rises, a snake poised for the kill, the rivulets hardened on the exterior mimicking scales, hangs in the air. Then, he raps on the slab, one, two, three boisterous knocks. Each one resonates in the chamber, Damien remaining silent as the last vestiges of sound pass, vibrations waning into nothing. The words teeter on the tip of his tongue, tethered there by his scrupulosity.

A chill roots in his nape, trickles down his neck, the ice of the months of winter creeping down his spine. He mimics the chthonic beauty of the Achaeans, so he can commune with the stolen eye of the _Graeae_. Once shared between three sisters, haggard witches from a myth, the decline of those pagan legends made the bodies of these gods prime for scavenging, plucking the jewels of their stories from their debilitating forms and claiming them relics. While his father owns the largest of collections, due a fancy for peculiar fineries, Damien employs the artefacts for their designed duties, lifting the magically valuable from the grand corridors displaying their visual wealth, and casting some illusion to cover his tracks. And these days, he's found, few check the authenticity to _begin with_ , so his larceny goes entirely unnoticed.

The black surface becomes a window, the ebony filling with fog. The veil of vapours drapes over the stone top, like fallen snowflakes lacing together on the rich earth. The haze thickens, lightening with the clustering fumes. Damien watches the chalky speckles dominate, and bites down, teeth cracking together, hard enough to burst the fragile skins of pomegranate seeds. A sweetness tingles on his, as he says, in the tongue of Homer, " _Grant me sight.._."

His limb recoils, shrinking back into its parent flow, branch returning to bark. The quiet suckling sound, of blood combining with blood, startles the torches' flames, flickering fearfully. Their lights bounce off the stone, off the haze as at it turns, twists. The nebulous cloud churns, a budding hurricane, sporting bulbous, robust currents. But the development stops, before creating an eye, this tempest obedient to its master. It can grant sight, but needs to be told what direction to look, and humbly waits for Damien to dictate his command. Ah, yes, one of the reasons he so admires magic; it's the most reliable servant of all.

" _Kenny McCormick_ ," He speaks the name and, notices, lowers his voice. Bitterness froths between his cheeks, something so, so different about verbal evocation, resentment too poignant when giving his name life. True, he's dwelled amongst the myriad thoughts in Damien's brain, but speech denotes a harsh reality about his feelings. He grinds his teeth, shaking his head as he expels the extraneous emotion from his mind, all of it mere distraction. But rather than let the malice linger in the firmament, he tacks on a sharp " _Find him_."

A thunderous grumble comes from the slab, an expression of compliance. The vapours concentrate, the middle lightening as the edges turn wispy, a pensive oracle focusing vision. Its eye refuses to open, not before it can reveal a crystal image for its master. Damien licks his lips, feeling ridges carved in the flesh, arid dunes sundering a desert's scape. He hungers for the clarity the eye will deliver, a remedy for his irresolution, aiding him in ultimately judging what cruelties he'll unleash. But as it looks over the regions of the earth, for this one soul in particular, his impatience eclipses his joy, each second taking too long, _too long_.

Then, the eye opens, the hurricane stretching apart, eyelids pulled up by their lashes. Damien's eyes widen, with it, and as he takes in the hues and shades colouring the room—the light birch panels of the floor, the stark white papers scattered around, the artificial black swivel chair toppled over, the clear translucent lubricant bottle opened, the wrinkled mess of discarded garments making up a rainbow of their own—the garnet in his eyes refines, purifies. He looms over, to get a closer look at the scene. Then, a sinister curl comes to his lips. In a blink, his eyes go scarlet.

v.

There was this one time, back in senior year, the gang played hooky the week before Spring Break and mapped out an epic half-month Las Vegas adventure. The four of them saved up all year to get a pyramid suite in the Luxor, mapping out the Strip and Fermont Street, debating which casinos to hit and what attractions to make. They borrowed a van from Uncle Jimbo, one that only looked a couple models newer than the Mystery Machine, and drove west on 70 until it went south on 15. A good half a day in the car, but the way there they drove straight through. The way back, though, they stopped somewhere between the Utah border and Grand Junction, the van got a flat, at two twenty-seven in the morning, with Monday's school bell just hours from chiming. Too tired to deal with it, they just pulled over, wait until the sun came up before changing it out, hope traffic didn't bone them and they could weasel in around lunchtime.

Kyle couldn't sleep, so he took his thick fleece blanket out and sat out under the stars. Back to the curving rubber, head leaning on the fender, he stared at the stars until Kenny slipped out of the backseat, claiming that between Stan's nasally snore and Cartman's night flatulence he wasn't getting any shut eye. They laughed, talked a bit, somehow wound up fucking against the wheel. And even though they did it a few times in Vegas, in those mattresses soft as a new born bird's down, under those blankets sewn from cotton treated on three different continents, freshly bathed in soap shaped like pharaoh's tombs, that time on the way home just stands out so well in his memory still. Maybe because that night was the hottest of the month, with generous temperatures so graciously brought by the heat wave, or maybe because that night Kenny had two fingers in his mouth and another two working up his ass. Two hands, two fingers, and two lips passing a continuous calming _shhhh_ between them urging Kyle not to moan too loud.

But there's not hushing tonight, no worrying about waking up the two friends snoozing on the other side of the steel sheets and car glass. Yeah, yeah, on the other side of those paper thin apartment walls are a neighbouring units, and there's only acoustic foam in the second bedroom converted into a streaming room; but one unit next door has been vacant for months, and the orderly renting out the other works so many double shifts they're lucky to catch her walking down the hall once a week. As for above and below, well, they know not to report anything to the landlord unless they want their _recreational activities_ or _business dealings_ to come to light, too. Blackmail sure as shit isn't the dirtiest thing they've done, and their walls can attest.

The two fingers—index and middle—gliding over Kyle's tongue, then, sliding in and out of the ring made by his lips, they're there just for his pleasure, that indulgence alone, exploiting his prerogative of sucking on whatever part of Kenny gets inserted into his mouth. The taste of plastic, rubber, sweat—the flavours blended on his fingertips, imbued in the ridges of his prints—roll over his taste buds, the combination, however mundane and crude, as delectable as top shelf cognac, _hors d'âge_. Nails, cut unevenly with a two dollar clipper, skim the flesh of his gums, superficial sensations rubbing near the muscle guarding his roots, a feeling that adds far more than detracts; or distracts, from the other fingers, meandering along the base of his ass, their tender and slicked arousal fully felt as they waver between darting along the interior of his thighs and tracing over swelling balls, or running through the crease of his cheeks and toying with the sensitive hole.

He regulates the air brought to and from his lungs, each breath calculated, carbon pushed from his nostrils when the fingers drag towards the tip of his tongue, oxygen greedily inhaled when they swiftly reversing back towards his throat. Their movements synchronise, make a rhythm like a metronome. Lungs inhale and exhale, fingers up and down, shared pulse that keeps the blood rush, rush, rushing. Rushing to all the right places, the throbbing headache that tortured him but half an hour ago subsided, head light as his cock outgrows flaccidity, hard and begging, for some goddamn relief, anticipated release.

His suckling subdues his moaning, Kyle only managing a low humming, while Kenny lets his hands be the blessed _Shabbos_ wine that quenches those burning thirsts, sensual and nearly spiritual. Inspiration, Kenny encouraging him to loosen his control, on his thoughts, on his muscles, on his volume, let his voice build and build behind a handicap so, when removed, Kyle just _can't_ —just _won't_ —shut up.

Kenny can work him so much, sometimes, with such ease it borders on annoying. All he has to do is pull Kyle down with him on his way to the floor, lie back on the papers strewn over the panelling, and enjoy the way the corners of his lips tease when his touch edges too close to tickling, or the flickers of emotion that play across the green in lightning flashes like an autumn storm. And even with his body on top, his lean build looming over Kenny's lanky form, that expression on his face—lips bent into a too smug smirk, eyes aglow with boyish mischief, laugh etched on his features—proves him more than a just a spectator, as captivating as he is captivated. And with each breath they take together, that mutual emotion resonates in Kyle, too.

A pair of fingers separates, widening the circle leading into his mouth. He grazes over the tops of his teeth, the naturally moulded enamel and the couple of capped cavities, trapped between the salivating sides of his tongue and the wet walls of his cheeks. Not the worst place to be stuck, Kenny thinks, with a breezy whistle. He bends his wrist, allowing his palm to act a pillow for Kyle's chin, letting his nails softly tap the top molars. A pink tip peeks out through the gap, coupled with a groan, made awkward by the sudden opening. That awkwardness only makes Kenny laugh, chuckles with barely enough air to be heard.

His eyes flit up, from mouth to eyes, flushed flesh to intense green. Intense because he's so involved, traces of shock floating behind those pupils, at the change, abrupt to him. Kenny stays his fingers, feels a light squeeze of teeth, nothing that might hurt, leave a mark, not something he'd even consider a bite. Torrid breaths leave his mouth, heat the thin skin connecting the bones of his hand, keeping fingers bound to body. Kyle's shoulders move with each one, slight mirrors of the rise and fall of his chest. In the stillness of the moment, Kenny swears those eyes darken, sharpen.

Kenny's lips tug into a grin, recognising that severity, having witnessed it a thousand times before, always in the middle, always when he _wants_ something. Something that Kenny's really good at giving; something Kenny's always ready to give. The hand skirting along the rim comes to a stop, palm settling on the plump curve.

Kyle feels the closeness of his ring finger, and the coolness of the ring. That ring could leave such a unique indentation, flat band temporarily branding his skin. A special kind of signature, that no one else could replicate. The thought brings a twitch to his fingers, on his left hand. He hears the light clink of his ring moving on the panels.

Head resting on the ground, Kenny tilts his head slightly. Blond hair messily scattered over top his forehead, thin film of sweat adding sheen to his skin, _fucking idiotic smile on his lips_ ; Kenny has always been a collection of broken beer bottles arranged into a vase, a masterpiece scribbled on a fast food joint napkin, torn up at the edges but belonging in a frame. It's a quality Kyle appreciates, one he probably always did, more and more every year bygone. His teeth press again on the digits in his mouth, as a thumb strokes over a corner of his jaw; he notices how his thighs are quivering.

A sigh, blithe and gentle, exits his lips, still baring a grin. His brows raise, the soft tone in his eyes matching that of his breaths. His eyes remain locked with Kyle's, licking over his bottom lip, tasting the palpable humidity between them, produced by them. The hand on his ass tightens its hold, turning from a casual rest to a noticeable grip. The ring finger ventures a little deeper, ghosting the edge. With a faint tremble, the teeth make impressions, and Kenny bites back another laugh.

"Bettin' you're thankful for my _amazing_ hand-eye coordination _now_ ," His voice sounds lyrical, mixed with the swallowed chuckle, spoken with too little air. Kenny backs his fingers from Kyle's mouth, reclaiming his skin now coated in saliva, taking his bones from his teeth. His thumb wipes over his lower cheek, stopping at the corner of his lips, pulling up one side only.

Kyle completes the smile, muscles mimicking the other side's manipulation. Kenny's fingers draw closer together, as they leave, resuming their original point. Kyle follows them with his tongue, pressing the tip to his fingertips just before they part. Kenny runs those fingers, wet and warm, through Kyle's hair, through red curls clumped just above his ear. The hairs, a little damp at the roots, follow his movements, bending like weeds to the wind, only to fall right back into position, bouncing back with an added fluff.

A deep, long sigh rolls from Kyle's lips, one felt by every fibre of his body. His smile stays just as wide as Kenny stretched his mouth. Cockiness twists his side of the grin, adds a chime when he speaks, in nearly one breath, "I'll be thankful when you _get on with it_."

"With what?" Kenny asks, voice honeyed with innocence, feigned ignorance. He taps his ring finger, presence felt by both cheeks, each switch between sides adding more heat between its tip and the hole, kinetic warmth crafting a tease Kyle can't ignore. He watches the frustration brew behind his eyes, on his face.

Kyle's teeth meet, but he refuses to break his smile. Air sifts through the slender strips between each tooth, smoke leaving the flames ignited in his head. A rush, libido seizing his mind, profound and pronounced as they preoccupy his mind, alert him to the state of his body, now entwined with his mind. His thighs' quivering worsens, challenging him to go limp and roll over. Any thought of languid muscles reminds him of the hard one, still in need of attendance—holding, rubbing, tugging. He can't ignore his mouth either, yearning for a kiss, even as his lips form silver words, " _Something you can do with your finger._ "

" _This_ finger?" Kenny takes his free hand, clenching it into a fist. He raises his index finger, only, and holds it to Kyle's face, presenting it as the one in question. Then, he presses it to Kyle's lips, dividing them down the middle. Kyle inhales the smell of his own mouth, watching Kenny's widen, at his oh so hilarious joke.

The smile droops, lips forming a fine line. His jaw hardens, clenched, teeth gritted. His brows slant, eyes narrowing, unamused. He doesn't speak, not because the finger inhibits him, because he can't find words—or the capacity for them.

" _Don't give me that,_ " Kenny gives a playful pout, tapping Kyle's upper lip. He draws his hand back, moves his whole arm. He lays an elbow the floor, sliding it along the panels' grain as he props his upper body from repose. His fingers grasp his ass, with all the force his hand can muster, dragging Kyle's lower body closer to his, while he raises his head so their lips align. His mouth opens, eating the air he expels, and giving back his own to brush against those hungry lips in gusts.

Kyle blinks, follows the loose commands, heeding the instruction of his motions. He is pliant, malleable. The trust runs right alongside the passion, assured by their past, their numerous experiences, that complying will end in ecstasy; end in him getting fucked _real good_. Their relationship is more than just that, yes, their soon-to-be marriage based on matters outside of how frequently Kenny makes him come; but, _damn is it a nice perk_.

Their lips breach orbit, gravitate closer. Kyle's mouth turns to rainwater, heavy, ready to pour, soak, drench. Anticipating the downpour, so he becomes a torrent deeply kissing a parched patch of earth. His heart beats in his ears, picking up the heat.

But before Kyle can duck down, claim the kiss first, he feels the ring finger. Feels it push off from his skin, sneak down, circle the edge. One fluid sweep, around and then in, facilitated by the thicker, slicker coating. Sliding in, all of a sudden, bringing with it a surge of pleasure, as he reaches, touches, excites.

A quick sound, somewhere between a yelp and a chirp, sharp gasp that robs his lungs. Kyle's mouth hangs, shock and pleasure vying, a kind of internal vibrating, fuzziness. Kenny's lips overtake his, in a messy kiss, sloppy exchange. But they need not neatness, as though they held some high standards that might nullify their emotions, for it's those that define them. As they course through Kyle, hot with his blood, he melts a little more, wax embracing flame.

Some might call it dirty, Kyle vulnerable in his surprise, and Kenny taking advantage; but this vulnerability is something Kyle slowly learned to show, hesitant for so long to grant it a fraction of a moment. But Kenny taught him that it is no weakness, that it is something he can allow, and promises him each time to tend to that, respect and care and cultivate the parts of him exposed. Each lapse in his guard, when Kyle drops all fortification and is truly naked to the world, is the real reason he said yes to that question, spends his spare time wandering through his dreams of their future, will crush a glass beneath his foot after vowing to be together. With Kenny, he can be fully exposed without a care, and knows he will get love in return.

vi.

The clouds dissipate, spying eye closing, cutting off the connection with the mortal realm. The ground's rocky shavings crumble beneath Damien's soles, as he takes a step back. But rather than his thoughts settled exclusively on a power extraction, a scientific experiment, his mind devises something new, something better, something hurtful. Because another stole his eyes, showed his worth, made himself valuable.

His hair is the colour of the heifer. Back never bearing the worker's yoke, its anomalous flesh in ashen form sanctifies one whose soul is blemished by the dead. And the texture, the texture is that of a lamb. An alter made of earth especially, such oblivious babes split their blood before God as Abraham nearly did to his son. But, unlike naïve and clueless Isaac, freed from his binds by an angel's interception, this boy has no such guardian. No, he _is_ the _lamb_ , slain and gone up in flames.

Damien's plague of blood, like the final plague of the first born sons of a kingdom of slavers, will pass over Kenny, his wrath reserved, and redirected. He will take the other in his place, an unbeknownst sacrifice. Really, their intended matrimony exemplifies the flaws in his loyalties, dooming him to the devices of an entity beyond his canon. No, not Kenny, he will take Kyle, lay him in his place, and _slaughter him_.

His soul can come to Hell, a tentative arrangement, achieved as his mind enters the world of dreams, and Damien can use his spellcraft to bring him here. Then, then he can mangle that soul, scarring the very essence of who he is, so deeply none can repair, even understand. He can be violated, defiled, sullied. And then Damien will smear his blood across the doorpost, sending him back as a broken being. Unlike the story, this will not be a sign of mercy, but one of horror, so he can destroy himself at the sight of this devastation he was spared of.

The lamb will die. The lamb will burn. The lamb will suffer.

vii.

All Kyle can hear is the harsh cascade, water spraying from the narrow shower head, each drop landing so hard it sounds like hail. An approaching maelstrom, one safely contained in the flimsy plastic curtain stretched across the crooked metal bar and two-tone tiles decorating the bathroom wall in pastel patchworks, but still threatening him, beyond the closed doorway, under thick flannel bedding. Small fluffy sheep mill in clusters here and there in the groundless blue expanse, a quaint little flock populating the fabric. They still smell like they did then, he thinks, when they got them at that yard sale a while back. Even after all its rounds in the washer, all their rounds between the sheets, the scent of liberally used fabric softener, burying the perennial odour of cat pee, endures in the threads. The only reason they have them is because Kyle made some stupid comment—how the swirls illustrating their woollen coats reminded him of the curling volutes crowning Ionic columns—and suddenly Kenny _needed_ that bedding. He quantified that remark as too nerdy, teasing him for a week solid about their little Greek lambs.

He laughs, soft, to himself—yeah, that was the _last_ semester he took a dumbass _art history_ course—then rolls over, switching from back to side. His cheek presses to the cotton sheathed pillow, a few curls crushed under the weight of his head, flattened like pressed flowers. The memory foam conforms to his face, matching every angle and curve. The case holds both their scents, from all the times their pillows ventured around the bed, between partners, in both their dreaming and wakeful uses, seeping in smells with the oils from their heads and the sweat from their skin.

Sitting on the nightstand, the digital clock reads two o-one, in the morning. Or maybe it's twelve o-one, just at a weird angle. The red block numbers fuzz, dance whenever his eyes try to focus. The exhaustion is setting in, each blink making his vision blurrier, eyes blearier. But at least a portion—a _handsome_ portion—of his drowsiness is well earned, from rocking back and forth with fingers fucking his ass, from jerking Kenny off while Kenny did the same for him, from getting a pounding instead of pushing a pencil. A much nicer thought to fall asleep to, not dwelling on the holes in his spreadsheet, drifting off thinking about the ones filled tonight.

The taste of him lingers, still heavy on his tongue, in his mouth. For one night, he'll forsake dental hygiene, claim all the labours of the day and night robbed him of his usual senses, simply forgetting and immediately dozing off, not strategically skipping so it fades naturally, washed away through salivation and swallowing. Maybe Kenny would've done the same, kept the mess, the white pooled on his torso, not a gossamer smear but a drivelling web. The sloppiness rewarding them in their endeavours necessitated _some_ form of clean up.

His eyelids weigh down, as though his lashes turned to lead, rusting and collapsing. The dimming moments of consciousness hold their own nirvana, with senses functioning minimally, nerves numbing gently, mind wavering idly. Kyle fights to keep awake, salvage his awareness so he knows when the shower's flow stops, when the bathroom door opens, when the mattress shakes as Kenny climbs in beside him. He does this whenever he beats Kenny to bed, stays that little bit up, that just enough to know; and proud of his sixty-forty success rate, usually catching him creep between the sheets, managing a slurred hum to the tune of his name, and earning a tender goodnight kiss, whether on his lips or his nose, forehead or crown. Kind of shit that raises those glucose levels a few notches higher.

His toes tingle, falling asleep in pieces, extremities lost first. Sleep is slow in staking its claim, yet quick to strike, a temporal paradox that sometimes leaves the body and mind out of sync. Kyle breathes out, one of those sighs that totally deflates the chest. He pushes his thoughts forward, playing Sisyphus before the Sandman, his efforts likely to be to no avail, but making them nonetheless. He thinks of tomorrow, of the things he has to do, of the few pages of notes he still needs to input, of the couple household chores he has to finish for his sanity's sake. Kenny still jokes about loving him despite _the crazy_ , the edges filed to a razor's sharpness by anxiety never slicing apart those kind hands. Kyle still jokes about Kenny being the real medication, activating whatever chemical ingredients make up his prescription, more than mere placebo.

His eyes shut, not enraptured by sleep, but in momentary frustration. The see-through orange bottle on the nightstand, donning a label bearing his name in bold capital letters, only holds three chalk tablets. With the holidays lurking, readying to interfere with the pharmacy's hours, one or both of them will need to run out and fetch the refills; otherwise Kyle will spend the yuletide dizzy and deranged from fast-acting withdrawal, and Kenny damned to endure the effects out of association.

Tomorrow morning, he'll scrawl a reminder to pick it up on a post-it note, slap it one the fridge: first place Kenny goes after waking up. Just like how, some mornings, Kyle heads to the coffee maker, vision still acclimating to the world around him, wading through the haze of residual fatigue, only to find a scrap of notebook paper taped to the pot: a reminder from Kenny. Another one of their small rituals, one that gives credence to Stan's complaints of their _vulgar domesticity_.

When they finally had their matching rings, the point Kenny deemed their engagement _official_ , Kyle called Stan, told him the news. He was the first to know, Kyle starting out in a trickle of words, talking around it, until it came out in a swift, excited burst, the energy of his words rushing to his head. From the other end of the phone, he heard a staccato laugh, and then a wry " _What? You weren't already?_ " When he thinks about the stupid little shit they do regularly, their day-to-day routines interspaced with bickering and joking and micro-affections, Kyle realises why practically nobody they knew was surprised.

Well, except his mother, screaming her typical " _What? What? WHAT?_ " so loud over the receiver Kyle nearly went deaf, but most things come as a shock to her in regards to her _mensch mooshlam_. She warmed up to it as soon as planning entered her mind, determined to make it a sequel to his _bar mitzvah_ , offering to help the boys out during every conversation. No matter how many times Kyle turns her down, she never alters her stance. Kyle ends up hanging up and ranting about it, only for Kenny to smile and say that's where his goddamn stubbornness came from.

Kyle can't hear the water, hear it fading, too busy snickering at that dopey grin. The grin Kenny makes when he's waiting for a reaction, pinching his tongue between his teeth to hold back his own amusement, not letting it burst until he's met with a light slap to the side or soft punch to the shoulder. Then right after he puts on a pout, pleading _babe don't be mean_ , until his histrionic whining makes Kyle cave, offering a kiss as an apology. A classic move, on Kenny's part, one of the basics in his repertoire, and Kyle 'falls for it' every fucking time.

There's a word for that, for why. Why he entertains Kenny by going along with his affectionate tricks, pretending every time that he's been duped as his part of the game. Why he pops in during livestreams to ask what he wants for dinner, distracting Kenny from whatever console he's playing on for a few minutes' chat ended with a few pecks on the lips. Why he surrenders his body to lips that know every inch, knowing each facet of his to the same intimate extent. There's a word for that, it's—

" _Oh, little lamb."_

A strange voice, spoken in a dovish murmur. Warmth exuding from the words, but not the way he's used to. No, it's not the way his family, or his friends, or even Kenny uses such candlelight tones. This is a different fire, not one of bark and leaves, one of oil and alkali, suspicious and acerbic. The words' tempt stems from something learned, adapted charisma, a voice made for something else but manipulated for a purpose…

" _Little lamb…"_

Kyle listens in the absence of the voice, hears the absence of the water. He must've fallen asleep, right? And now his brain is sending signals, electric code that translates to his consciousness as nonsensical imagery and sound, a reorganisation of his memory and a reconvening of his worries, all into one disorderly mess. He read somewhere that dreams can last fifteen minutes, at most or at least, he can't remember which. Not that people really know anything about them, outside of the cycles, the waves of activity. And in the end they can be so easily forgotten, so delicate that they melt like snowflakes when you…

" _Wake up."_

The voice cuts him, armed by impatience. It's a knife that slits his eardrums, the command filling his head with blood, leaking from his sides and pooling under his brain. Or maybe more the detonation switch, to activate a bomb nestled within the lobes, exploding and sending chunks of grey matter and bits of skeletal shards flying. Or the frequency that rings in moments of silence, shrill and loud but no one else can hear, inspiring insanity that makes a knitting needle through the skull sound calming. The harsh slice compels him, to open his eyes, but he doesn't want to.

But they do, open, as though the lids were severed and shed from his face, forcing him to accept the gift of sight. His surroundings appear with immediate clarity, clarity that he no longer lies restfully in his bedroom, far from there now; his only companion the low brewing in his gut. He stares up at a cavernous roof, arching above him in ridges, resembling the belly of a great whale. Or the corpse of one, with holes eaten out of the stone, leading out to the abyssal deep sea; he only knows of their presence because of the light below, reddish hues emitted from his level charting out the limestone bones.

Next comes smell, nostrils assaulted by the thick odour of sulphur. Rotten air to accompany the rotten feeling, a visceral one that reminds him of the frightened antelope on the savannah in those Animal Planet documentaries, or those stupid bimbos in the latest blockbuster horror movie, that _fight or flight_ instinct. The scent so pungent, the malaise so poignant... _But this is only a dream, right?_ He thinks this, letting it echo, but each reverberation strays farther and farther from convincing, as though the words were uttered in this chasm and run away. The truth flees, the lie lingers, and Kyle hesitates on which to trust, wavering in uncertainty. Only his senses seem reliable.

Touch returns, physical feeling restored to his body in the span of a breath. The senses come in breaths, he realises, bestowed another aspect of life through his nose. Torrid air inflates his lungs, and cold stone cushions his limbs. His soft, human body juxtaposes the hard flat stone, a bed belonging to a mausoleum. The ache of lying there infects his muscles, bones, an odd tingling sensation, like a wearing off sedative possesses his limbs. A clue that he has control over his body, but a warning that his control is limited, reflexes slowed and dexterity dulled.

His mouth still tastes the same, tastes faintly of Kenny. Not totally washed away, helping him recall everything that happened before slumber claimed him, brought him to this trance. The taste brings back the feeling, of him stroking the side of his face, the moments before, of, and after, leading him up, peak, and down. And the sounds, of him half-panting as he teased about how they both have great stamina for guys who sit on their asses all day, how Kyle's probably praising his fingers made nimble from working a controller, how he's too happy letting Kyle make messes on him for the rest of their lives. In his mouth is warmth and comfort, safety and home, the rich cream that grants him some security, souvenir from reality. So long as he has the taste, he has something to hold on to.

When he groans, rumbling beginning in the back of his throat, he feels the vibrations throughout his head, rattling his tongue, jostling his brain, rolling his eyes. His elbows slide on the rock face, angling his back so he can prop himself up, see the rest of the room. A part of him wonders whether, with a blink of the eyes, the scene might change, follow the disjointed logic of a dreaming mind and disconnect. End up, spontaneously, in a phantasmal meadow with orange curly grass and three green suns, or in an underwater metropolis with carved coral columns and great conch chariots, or even in his loved hometown with streets accurate to reality and friends untouched by time.

But when he closes and opens his eyes, all he sees is his body, torso and legs connected through woven pyjama shorts. The same pair he slipped on, clumsily, before crawling into bed, thinking little of it at the time, just needing something to keep him from stark nakedness. A little too big on him, because he can't remember for sure if they were always his or became his. How odd though, that their mismatched wardrobes made it all the way here, wherever here is. While such things are so commonplace in his reality, having it now adds a dimension of exposure, to exacerbate his current confusion. He focuses his thoughts on the taste, to temper his thoughts, but he still hears nervous mutterings in the recesses of his mind, saying that something is wrong.

Kyle lifts his leaden head, wishing the weight would lighten. His muscles feel infected, unseen entropic forces gnawing on his bones, whittling away the flesh. He looks unharmed, but nurses atrophy inside, the type of degradation that fosters weakness. If there's one thing he hates, of all things in the world, it's such feelings of weakness, helplessness. The time in childhood taken by sickness, the periods of depression brought by breakdown, the losses of faith and of stability… All shaped him into someone who would rather murder his reflection than fall to its image. But he refuses for the bad taste of the situation to contaminate his mouth, not now, not when he needs his strength most, to face the unknown.

The unknown, he thinks, has a medieval fetish. Torches stave off the total darkness, only keeping it light enough to see just well enough. Bookshelves appear as part of the walls, sheltering a plethora of odd manuscripts, ones akin to museum holdings and scholarly libraries, pictures bejewelling the PowerPoint slides of a professor's lecture. His eyes cannot discern the bits of text he sees, the languages unknown and unfamiliar as the arching walls. The floor is black, pure black, with a strange sheen. Not the type owned by polished marble or by Jerusalem stone, nor the sort by patina statues or by glazed ceramic; it shines more like the choppy waves of a rushing stream, capturing sunbeams and stealing their glitter. But this river froze over, making a floor of black ice, but he suspects it thinner than it lets on to be.

But someone stands on this ground of slicked sleet, clad in clothing sewn from shadows. The fabrics' darkness contrasts with his complexion, but matches the thick crop of hair on his head. There's something unsettling about the apparent averageness, his height nothing spectacular, muscles fairly negligible, face only conventionally good-looking. He stays a foot or so away from the foot of Kyle's bedrock, concentrated on the tome cradled in his hands, treating the leather like the delicate skin of a newborn. Eyes of coal scan over words Kyle cannot see, as slender lips mumble over words Kyle cannot understand. Chagrin whets the angles of his face, brows furrowing as he reaches the end of his passage.

Damien snarls a curse, squinting at the Latin calligraphy, in search of error. The words, painstakingly drawn upon the parchment by a Dark Age alchemist, mention putting the spell's target into sleep paralysis, but that should be exclusive to the mortal world, rendering the body immobile and stagnant until the soul returns. The soul itself should still own consciousness, capability of feeling and witnessing, for the very premise of his plan is all for naught if, too, the soul is suspended in stasis. The book must clarify, must say whether its text has been all along misleading, earning its damned author a special visit from the Devil's very own blood. He leafs through the pages past, rereading incantations.

His illusionary spells, disguising his more devilish features, withstand the growing ire, but his eyes cannot hide their nature. Red steadily dyes his irises, the colour spreads like a drop of blood diffusing in a vat of water, Kyle thinks, as he watches intrigued, trying to place where he may have seen him before. He read somewhere that no one in a dream is a true fabrication, every face belonging to some passer-by the brain transcribed and reproduced. His semblance is a phantom, of someone he maybe knew, but all familiarity of his form and memory of his manners disappeared long, long ago.

Kyle opens his mouth, hesitates, washes with unease before a word escapes. His veins compress, each blood cell grating against the walls of its vessel, a pulsating tension, one felt in his heart. Suspicion, scepticism, whatever its name churns his stomach, whispers warnings to him, repeating how this will not bode well for him. Because there's something about this dream that doesn't feel quite like one. Not that this is a nightmare, but that this is something he might not be able to wake from, cheated out of the dreamer's agency, a pawn in another's scheme. His mind fears that this, this is not his mind, but something else; and if that is true, that something else is sinister and dark, something unlike the things he's faced before.

He watches Damien take a hand from the gold encrusted spine, lift it over the page. For a moment, a flicker of the fire, he swears those fingers' nails are too long, extending farther from the tip, ending in a point. He blinks, watches, sees his forefinger sway in the air as he searches for a phrase or line in his text. But he spies no such growth, fire playing tricks; yet he can't shake the image. Kyle always prided himself in being an adept judge of character, and while his eyes may tell lies he feels deep in his gut that there is something _false_ about him, this visage ersatz. If what lies deeper is worth hiding, there must be something horrid underneath.

Damien locks his jaw, clenches his teeth. His face is made of rock, a paler breed than the sort that makes this grotto, but far harder than it or other ordinary stones. He bends his forefinger slowly, mechanically, warping it into a barbed curl. A forced exhale leaves his mouth, in a rough billow. Rather than temper his aggravation, as the technique might suggest, his eyes remain a saturated red, all traces of ambivalent black evicted. He takes his eyes from the page, a glower etched into his brow, but pauses when his eyes meet a pair of green.

The marrow in his bones turns to ice, Kyle staring back with a skeleton of frost. His muscles cower, flesh pulled tight over, like a child's blanket protecting him from monsters. Because these eyes are that of a monster's, glinting with the same evils that flourished in the city of Sodom, that prompted God to destroy the kingdom so infamous, that made Lot's wife turn into a pillar of salt when she looked back. His heart pounds against his chest in panic, but Kyle refuses to let his fear come across. It is weakness that they prey upon, and for he hopes a guise might spare him as a victim.

But that defiant gaze, so resolute as he returns Damien's stare, is all the assurance needed. His inner terror may be the blood in the water, but the scent Damien hunts for is of far greater rarity, something he's only ever found on himself. Because he can sniff all their likenesses, smell their similarities, from the pride to the lust to the envy to the wrath. Kyle has his will to be right, be in control, be the master of both his vices and his virtues; but he made a fatal flaw. He fell in love with Kenny McCormick, forsaking his finer points for what? To stay grounded to the so limited world? To have another's company in life? To surrender control and call another master?

One soul turned pitiable for the sake of another so pathetic. Mortals never fail in exceeding Damien's expectation of stupidity.

"My, my," Damien says, a cold softness to his voice, to his face. He raises his eyebrows, loosens his jaw, converts his expression from violent anger to lethal gentleness. His lips turn up into a relaxed smile, approving of Kyle's awaiting waking, forgetting all the swears that a moment ago consumed his thoughts. His tongue licks over his bottom lip, the gluttony growing inside as he stares upon the dish of his desires. He cannot deny the ravenous feeling within, the lust to devour and claim, his time at last arrived: to take what is _his_ and make it _**his**_ , "I see why he's kept his body warm for you."

Kyle blinks, swallows. Knots form in his throat, taunting his lungs as he breathes. The danger is palpable, but he knows little of his situation, outside that he is stuck. He refutes the word captive, but his mind is distracted as his words replay in his head: _kept his body warm for you?_ What does that even mean?

"What is this?" He asks, monotone. He won't let any emotions betray him, even as he feels his organs writhe inside his skin. There are always ways to gain an upper hand, his years of life have drilled that in his head. Though, here, staring into reddening eyes, he starts to question the truth of his experience.

Damien's mouth opens, his jaw hanging as he smiles. His grin reminds Kyle of a wild dog, slobbering over its meal. He stifles a shudder as Damien lets out a laugh, "Oh, that's right, you don't _know_ , do you?"

"Well I don't exactly know what I'm doing here," Every word is calculated, Kyle executing every syllable with care. All to hide that he feels scared, threatened, afraid the weakness might take him. Or maybe he's just lying to himself, to convince him otherwise, "So I'm guessing there's a lot I don't know. Like _who_ you are."

"Well _I'm_ Damien. And _you're_ not as _dumb_ as you look," His tone patronises, ignoring the question. He's naturally condescending, not a misstep in his voice, just what Kyle hates: the pompous walking as though they own the earth itself. He takes a few long strides forward, and the reflections on the floor shift. Kyle catches it only from the corner of his eye, but it's almost like the floor is moving under his feet. No, _around_ his feet, to avoid his steps, like the floor isn't fluid but something _on it_ is. The pit in Kyle's stomach deepens.

A chill rushes through him, thoughts derailed by an icy touch. Kyle snaps his head, only to see Damien with his hand on Kyle's leg, fingers gliding up his calf. His red eyes fixate on the skin in a wanton stare, examining his skin as he follows the bone. But his look of examination is not like a doctor tending a patient, but a butcher treating meat. Kyle's foot twitches, unable to stop the trembling from crawling on his skin. His thoughts unsettle when, at the tremors, Damien lets out a dreamy sigh, "Well, for a _human_ , anyway."

The hand brushes up, past his knee, towards his thigh. No inhibitions, as though he has the right to go wherever he pleases, as though he can touch Kyle however he pleases. Instinct kicks in, unable to sit still as Damien lets his hands wander freely. He shifts back, a swift slide, retreating from the cold touch. He pulls his leg to his chest, hand kicked away. His eyes flit from Damien's hand, holding nothing in the air, to his eyes, sparked with shock. When the layer of surprise ebbs, so Kyle can see the breadth of his attention, see that he has all of it, he says, sternly, " _Don't touch me_."

The crack in his voice carries down the cavern, to the ends of the chamber he cannot see, his own involuntary slip haunting him. Damien holds his gaze, tantalised. He chose a feisty one, a boy with such spunk. He presses the tip of his tongue to his mouth's palette, suppressing a smile. This must be what his people call _chutzpa_ , something Damien can admire, for its quaint charm, endeared by how he says no as though he had a choice. He shuts the book one-handed, watching for a shuddering reaction, another chip at Kyle's armour. His lips tug into a small, menacing grin, one befitting a mouth of fangs, " _Oh,_ that's _cute_."

His words are knives, stropping as he speaks, so Kyle can listen to the blades get finer. An affront, telling Kyle how they will slice, but daring him to challenge him, just because the odds are fixed and he is guaranteed failure. The confidence sickens him as much as the promise it boasts, the sort that takes great pleasure in puncturing the bodies of others, and standing high above them as they bleed out on the floor. These are the victories he savours, those won out of unfair battle; even though he can already tell how he's at a disadvantage, an inkling thought in Kyle warns that he is still standing, still about to be cut down.

Damien's leering eyes glance over Kyle, his entire body, enjoying every bare inch. A lighter complexion, but still in good health. Not immaculate, with a few sparse specks of cinnamon in random patches on his skin, dashes of nutmeg sprinkled on his hips, cookie crumbs floating atop a glass of milk. Lean but not feeble, built to channel another's force against them more than exert brute force. Not a thin wire with paltry vigour, but compactly solid with nimble clout. His lamb is no runt, likely a treasure to his ewe, and certainly a prize of his shepherd, so much so he has his own ear mark.

He takes another few steps, closer to the rock, closer to Kyle. This time Kyle pays attention to the floor, to the changing reflections of the black. Whatever it is, it doesn't move like water, but like a snake, slithering and coiling, all grouped together into one mass, pressed flat. So many, too, but all headless, just bodies, maybe tails; where do they start?

Damien steals back his focus, taking Kyle's left hand in his, lifting it up. His hands become a loom—little finger on the top of his palm, ring and middle stretched perpendicular to the joint, running under his hand, and index overtop the other fingers, its pad pressing to the pad of Kyle's ring finger—one thread pulled out from the tapestry, for individual display. The silver gleams, band capturing the flames' light. When the diamond glints, its own scintillating star, Kyle can't remember a time he's felt so cold, so cold to his core.

"Let me guess," Damien says, low and sure. He folds his hand, so his thumb brushes over the bottom of the band, following the metal wrap around the bone. Then, he sweeps up, over the stone, the facets of the diamond meeting the ridges of his fingertips, "Because of _this,_ only _Kenny_ gets to touch you, _hmm?_ "

Kyle feels glass in his veins, ice in his bones, vomit in his lungs. His eyes widen, as a mutiny plays out in his body, mind losing to rash emotion. Struck at his sweetest spot, a crack made in his defences, exploiting his attachments. He holds on to the memory resting on his tongue, mouth kept shut to save the taste of his home from desecration; but suddenly the security of his home is becoming a source to be manipulated, abused. He keeps telling himself, telling himself not to be afraid, but as he clings to his single vestige of his reality, while his body's minute reactions evince his thriving panic, doubt takes root, making him question how well he can protect himself.

Self-preservation is a basic concept humans always get wrong. They always do this, arm themselves with the things they want kept safe, put them on the line so recklessly and then kill themselves for their decisions. Kenny did this, using Kyle as his path towards worldly redemption, and Kyle does this, using Kenny as his ground for reason and rhyme. They do this for each other, mortals, and make martyrs of themselves in the name of stupid concepts like love, proclaiming their devotion grants them innocence, absolves them of their crimes. But it doesn't spare them their folly, the weakness over the ones they love. Damien hates weakness, hates the weakness he detects in Kyle's eyes, his strength unravelled into a lie because of a single lousy soul.

Damien's presenting hold collapses, into a rough clasp. He crushes Kyle's fingers, yanking them against the restrictions of their joints. He stirs the nerves, pain driving up his arm, Kyle gritting his teeth behind closed lips. Kyle tries retracting his hand, but can't leave the hold, each attempt resulting in a slight twisting of his arm, straining more nerves. A tamer mode of harm, subtle in its damage, but the pain is exceptional, exponential. He's gotten into fights before, kicked someone's ass and had his ass kicked, so he knows this pain is worse than it should be, worse than when he sprained his ankle in fifth grade, or when he dislocated his thumb in eighth grade, or when he broke his arm in freshman year of college. This is worse because whatever's hurting him is using a force he's never encountered before, because no human can do so.

But he can't let him just do this, just hurt him. No, Kyle was raised with the need to fight, fight to get the things he wanted, needed. He always fought, until someone fell upon the floor, whether it was him or the other guy. Small town boys in the mountains play rough, doesn't matter their class, not when scrapes and skirmishes act as hobbies. And it never matters who the opponent is; all that matters is managing enough strikes against them to win. In this case, winning means getting away.

Kyle acts quickly, raising his right arm, balling his hand into a fist. His nails dig into his palm as he clenches, knuckles whitening as the skin stretches over the bones. He channels all the lingering shakes, kinetic energies rerouted from vibrating his flesh to bolstering his punch. His teeth grind, seeing Damien's eyes, seeing that delighted crimson. His blood boils, and he takes his swing.

It should've hit his cheekbone, shattered the chiselled grin on Damien's face. He doesn't know how well hitting him would've worked, but he wouldn't have liked it. Probably, had his blow reached him, had it not stopped midway.

Around Kyle's whole arm is a long, black tentacle, wrapped tightly to his skin. It's a cold, constricting grip, taking all of his strength and stopping it, dead. And Kyle's eyes stare, blank, wide, open. The colour and shine match the one seen on the floor, those fluid headless serpents really all enormous, tactile limbs. His eyes follow down the limb, ignoring the loops coiling his arm, led down, down along its length. The tentacle spurs from Damien, from behind him, from his back. Kyle's eyes flicker to Damien's face, and he sees the Antichrist's true form.

Damien tilts his head, widens his grin. All six of his sharp, salient fangs glisten, enamel wetted by saliva, from his thirsting tongue licking them over and over again as his nurses his appetite for horror, for destruction, for suffering. The look in Kyle's eyes, the flame of hope blown out so fast; it brings a new light to Damien's eyes, intensifying his red gaze, of greedy desire. Humans truly are all the same, all soft and fragile, made dumb by their frailties. But at least their insurmountable faults offer Damien an opportunity, to feast off their flaws.

" _Little lamb, little lamb_ ," He croons, in a demon's lullaby. His hand slides from Kyle's, a reprieve from his pain, but not a release from his suffering. Kyle sees when he draws that hand back that his nails really do sport serrated claws, just as deadly as the pointed teeth. Damien banishes the book, liberated from hiding his capabilities, although such disappearance is only minor magic, goes unnoticed by Kyle.

No, Kyle watches the tentacles rise up from behind him, behemoth limbs growing, extending. As they flap, move, extending like the charred bones of an angel's skeleton, Kyle smells the thick, thick iron, so pungent he nearly gags. It's blood, he realises, that's why they looked so much like liquid, so fluid. Limbs of devil's blood stretching over, blocking the lights of the fires, surrounding him. They open like wings, Damien with his ashy horns and deep eyes staring at him from the middle, in full control. He is in full control; Kyle has no control.

Damien lolls his head back, lets out a short laugh. He knew his preparations would have priceless result, using his first limb to reach behind him, cut in two lines on either side of his spine. He spawned new arms from behind him, copying the images of God's soldiers, becoming the demented bastardisation of one Lucifer, taking the portrait of his father, of the morning star, and becoming the black hole formed in his downfall. And from the gashes cut through cloth and skin, he can form countless new parts to invade every orifice he pleases, he wishes.

Kyle struggles, with the limb clutching his arm, tugging it back. His body curves, trying to close into a ball, the protective pose of a forming infant in the womb. His knees come closer to his chest, his free arm reaches around. But another tentacle swoops around him, into his line of vision. From its tip, Kyle sees three others spurt, thinner than its parent, all sneaking to untwist his body. One cold limb pries at his arm, the other two shove apart his knees. All he feels is their frostbitten force.

A hand, one of Damien's regular hands, reaches out, grabs Kyle's chin. He presses hard on his jaw, with pressure Kyle fears could snap the bone, make it brittle and break. His claws dig shallow into his cheeks, only the very tips breaching skin, the first violation of his body. Damien yanks Kyle forward, bringing his face right up to his. That coupled with the other forces exhausts him, Kyle losing to the limbs. Each one swirls around, claiming his body, as though his parts were up for salvage. Damien is taking each one, slowly, so Kyle knows the transition, the transfer of power, of ownership.

"I'm going to take you, little lamb, so you will no longer be _his_ ," Damien says sneering by the end, eyes looking deep, deep into the petrified green. Through his bloodied limbs, he feels all the curves of Kyle's body, its softness, its warmth. So different from him, rigid and cold, a contrasting body and an almost kindred soul. As his grip tightens around Kyle's arms, Kyle's legs, another pair of tentacles sneaks behind, slides down his back, along the slopes of his lumbar. He feels the shudder carry through Kyle's body, as the tips of his limbs reach for the small of his back, for the edge of his shorts. He takes a moment to caress, savour the delicate arch, and then leans his face closer, so Kyle can smell his breath of acid when he tells him, " _I am going to make you mine_."

The unbridled confidence, the unbreakable certainty, steals the air from Kyle's lungs. Instead they fill with toxic gas, noxious fumes, the reek and rot of a devil's mouth. And Damien pulls him closer, too, so his mouth can be tainted just the same. His jaw aches, a few drops of blood dotting the scratches on his cheeks, as a tongue intrudes his mouth, ravishing his lips. That taste, that taste of home, of Kenny, goes away, dies under the acrid flavour of Damien, the disgust of his mouth. He contaminates him, poisoning and polluting with his violent kiss.

It's true, Kyle's never been kissed like this. Because all the kisses he's ever received were kind and loving, were passionate and sweet. This is one stings, hurts, empowers the sickness he so loathes. Damien takes from Kyle's lips, takes his power, his stability, his security. He is a mugger, assaulting Kyle with his lips, demanding all the power so he can dominate, can conquer. This is only the flag plunged into the beach's shoreline; he intends to fully explore the lands he wishes to name for himself.

Kyle thrashes, a fire in his muscles, in his body. The panic manifests, in his struggle, nerve ends exploding as his arms and legs battle the tentacles, for freedom. Every part of him screams, screams how every touch is alien, ever smell is unwanted, ever taste is of a stranger. This is an invasion, of him as a person, a dehumanisation. If he gives up, he admits himself as property, as a vassal to carnal whims, something one can take. If he surrenders, he loses himself, as a person, and becomes his vulnerabilities.

Damien draws back, from Kyle's gasping mouth. His nails stroke his cheek, leaving reddish trails upon the flesh. But this skin is not really his skin; this is Kyle, Kyle's soul. His physical body will not show any bloodshed or battery, but his wounds will never heal. Each dragging of his claws is a new scar, and each contraction of his limbs a new bruise. Damien holds his smile, staring at Kyle, embracing the attempts at escape, all futile, all arousing.

"Lambs may bleat before the block, _Kyle_ ," He says, for the first time using his name, speaking it with a sense of authority, possession. Kyle never gave his name, but Damien took it, took it as another right he robs him of. The tips of four new limbs toy with Kyle's torso, two rubbing the shape of his abdomen, two gliding over his chest. They make their first touches, then all the tips fork, so two can toy with nipples hardening under the cold, and two can dart under the rim of his shorts. Kyle's body arches, cringes, and another limb curls round and steadies him by the ribs. Damien's thumb wipes over the dribble of blood, leaking from the wound he made. Red smears over his skin, then releases his face, "But they all go to _slaughter_ in the end."

" _ **Stop**_ ," Kyle manages, and immediately hates the sound entering his ears. The sound of his own voice: begging, bawling, _bleating_. It disgusts him, just as much as the continued pawing, as the blood corroding at his skin, as the one about to rape him. Rape, that's the word, that's what this is. As the pieces fall together, into place, he wonders whether murder might have been more merciful.

Laughter, keen and bitter cackling, is his answer. A cruel rejection, because Damien doesn't care what he wants, if he wants it, he only cares what he wants for himself. This is about the power, about making Kyle feel powerless, about inflicting the worst form of harm. The worst harm to Kyle, by violating him, and the worst harm to Kenny, by leaving him powerless to help or to save him. The power in Kenny's soul can more easily be tapped when he turns distraught and disheartened, able only to watch Kyle attempt at coping, with the plundering and pillaging of his very essence.

His limbs slam him down on the slab, bashing his shoulder blades with a strong thud. He stretches Kyle apart, splays his body across the rock, with his hands and feet bound to the corners. Kyle's feet twitch, his hands twist, only resulting in tautening restraints, and cuts from the jagged edges. A cry exits his mouth, nearly choking on another, and Kyle shuts his eyes. But that only worsens things, amplifying the cold gropes. The blood isn't smooth, but ridged by rivulets, melted to make ridges that add all more discomforting sensations, ones that make him sweat, make him wince, make every part of him ache and hurt.

Damien climbs on top of him, overshadows him. He rests his groin over Kyle's, raising awareness to his erection, craving to further stake his claim. His blood limbs aid him, undoing the fastenings, and letting another branch burgeon, take care of the shorts. A quiver of excitement flows through him, undressing him. Kyle will be fully exposed for him, naked like the ones in the Garden, and Damien will be the domineering Lilith who subjugates Adam to acts undesired.

Kyle listens to Damien's breathy pants, each full of wanting, the worst kind of lust. He opens his mouth, to let out another shout, another protest. From the corner of his lips, a tentacle rushes in, tip grazing the inside of his cheek, then curling. Iron permeates his taste buds, mouth thrusted with gross metal, a tendril growing and thickening between his lips. He bites down, teeth sinking into the tentacle, and spurts of liquid stain his palette. The taste is worse, and no pain appears in his scarlet eyes. Kyle stops, blinks, notices the tears welling in his eyes. If he bites more, he'll puke, his stomach will revolt and send seas of bile, only to be blocked by the limb and settle in his throat. He'll drown on this table, in his vomit and in black blood. He feels the first warm droplet of water roll down his temple.

The tentacles, unfettered by any cloth, begin their major attacks. He feels them twist around his cock, slide up and down. His stomach drops, a quake starting inside him, only thinking—praying—for it to stop. All the happiness and pleasure he felt from a short time ago, when Kenny was the one doing this, all vanish, dissipate. Evaporated joy leaves him a shell. And the tips of other limbs, fondling his ass, poking at his hole, only hollow him more.

Damien leans over, lowers his dick on top of Kyle's, moving his tentacles so it can jack him the way they do Kyle. His lips maintain their horrible grin, toothy so Kyle can see how much of a beast he is, so he can know the face of the creature that fucked him. He sees him weep, with the bitterness of the _maror_ , genuine sorrow. If his feelings are unbearable now, Damien wistfully thinks, he surely cannot handle well what comes next. And after that nothing can save his soul.

" _Inlitus_ ," A single word acts as a spell, lubricating the tips of his limbs, so he can enter more easily. He inhales, with a grunt, as they secrete in accordance to the magic. He measures its effectiveness by looking at Kyle's face, watching his features warp as he feels the wet tentacles playing with his ass, tugging on his cock.

Kyle wishes for the end, when Damien slides his tentacles in. They wriggle against the walls, cold and damp and frigid. He wants it end, and doesn't care how. He wants to be numb, so he can't feel those limbs thrusting inside him, or pulling up on him. He wants to stop crying, too, but Kyle starts wondering how much control he has over himself. Did he lose it all? Is he unable to even control the functions and mechanisms of his being? Is he still here or just a disjointed and disembodied voice trapped inside an empty body?

This is what weakness is. Kyle is weakness. He hates weakness, he hates himself. Just when his life was looking comfortable, something like this has to happen. He has to be reminded how quickly things can go their own way, outside his way. Dreams can turn to nightmares and comfort with oneself to exposure to others. And as much as he knows it's not his fault, he wants to say it is, because then he'll have a reason for this hate directed inward. He just wants this to end.

And what about Kenny? It feels like he's never going to see him again. The violation goes on, and on, for what feels like forever. He misses those nice blue eyes, those loving arms that wrap around him. He wants to be back in that embrace, and let the teardrops stream down his face, because he doesn't want to cry here. He doesn't want Damien to see him cry, but it's too late for that. It's too late for a lot of things, so he gives up on comprehending why he's here. He just wants this to be over.

This cold may never go away. He can't tell what parts are the tentacles anymore, and what parts are where they previously touched. Everything blends together, into the same sensations that make him sick. This is an infection, one that's killing him as it fucks him, a cancer beating him down. No matter how hard he fights he could never muster the strength requisite to be liberated. The truest form of strength now is endurance. He just wants Damien to be done.

He knows when he comes, knows because there's a surge that goes through all of him, appendages included. Blood might be black but the semen's still the same, white tarnishing his flesh. Part of him wishes for it to have some acidic quality, burn holes in his skin to add some surreal sense of horror to the situation, as though such ridiculousness would act as respite for the trauma. The red eyes are so engrossed, with the mess he made, and Kyle just stares back, with his own red eyes.

The tentacles slowly relax their grips, retreat. Kyle only knows by seeing them, watching Damien's wings reform. One by one, they span out, no longer aimed shooting towards his body, back to an idle stance. He knew it, he thinks at the sight, he still feels cold. How long will he need to be held before even a shred of warmth reaches through?

Damien brushes Kyle's cheek, with the back of his hand. Blood and tears dampen his face, a combination that elicits such euphoric jubilee inside his demonic heart. The carmine bloodstreams colouring the whites of Kyle's eyes attest to his success, that he sullied the innocent lamb. And now the tarnished and blemished must live with this humiliation. He loves the hate in Kyle's eyes.

"Now," Damien's voice is still breathy, no less excited. He leans over him, lowers his face to Kyle's. His lips tremble at Damien's approach, afraid of another kiss, but their lips don't touch. He just hovers, over Kyle, staring into his eyes. He makes sure his eyes are all Kyle can see: nothing but the passionate sin smouldering crimson in the eyes of a devil. He stays like that, a moment, so his gaze can mark him, be scarred on the backs of his eyelids, so when he closes his eyes he thinks of what was done to him, " _Say hi to Kenny for me_."

viii.

A steady fall of rain beats against the window panes, globs hitting the glass like a box of pebbles spilling over. A musky grey washes the sky, with a few scraggly clouds flying low enough to become a light mist, a gloomy fog loitering. A few darker puffs sit higher in the atmosphere, unsure whether they wish to grumble with thunder or spark out lightning, to dramatize their storm.

Kyle peels his eyes open, and even on the ceiling he still sees Damien's eyes. He still feels those cold limbs groping him. He still tastes that awful iron blood in his mouth. The longer his eyes stay open, the more he realises how much they hurt, hurt from sobbing. If it was a dream, did he cry in real life too? If it was a dream, does the rape still count?

He sits up, slowly. His bones creak, as he pushes the flannel down. He flinches at the pattern, at the flocks of sheep, the little lambs. _Little lamb_ , he can still hear that voice, coddling him with that, saying it with such demented affection. All Kyle feels is hate, sure as stone, that and only that. But he doesn't know where it goes, just feeling that—hate—with no attachments. An incomplete sentence, he is, trailing off at the end, with only the partial of an idea.

The panels of the hallway groan, footsteps agitating their undisturbed state. Kyle listens to them approach, to the knob of the bedroom door turn, to the door open, and hears Kenny bellow, " _Morning, Rip Van Winkleberg_."

He stands, a cup of coffee in each hand, one for Kyle and one for him. His is the tall cup, with the Mysterion logo painted on, found on Etsy for a somewhat unreasonable price; Kyle's the fat mug, with ' _I love you a latke!_ ' inscribed on the side, bought at Target on clearance. Usually just seeing Kenny delivering his much needed morning caffeine in his favourite gift mug would make him smile, but he can barely turn his head.

Kenny feels something off, something wrong. He takes the few steps over to the bed, sits on his side. He rests the base of his cup on his kneecap, and holds Kyle's mug out, for him to get. Wisps of steam rise from the freshly brewed hazelnut, dancing like torch flames. From his peripheral vision, he sees Kenny crane his neck, trying to get a good look at Kyle's face. The concern in his eyes makes Kyle uneasy, "You… feeling okay?"

Kyle nods, head moving mechanically, a bulky up and down motion. He turns his head, hoping his unconvincing acting tempered Kenny's curiosity, only to see the blue more fixated on him. They widen, seeing his eyes.

"Dude," Kenny moves closer, to inspect further. He saw the eyes, saw that tears stained the green, probably expects more than that. The coffee in both mugs sloshes, a few drips marring the flannel sheep's woollen coats. The worry makes Kyle afraid, because aside from the tears he doesn't know what Kenny sees, "What happened?"

" _Nothing_ ," Kyle talks and realises how flat his voice is. And the exhaustion, it's like the day after a panic attack, when coming down means leaving a part behind, and just existing until those bits trickle down from where they were forgotten. He starts lifting a hand, it feels so heavy.

"It's _not 'nothing'_ if you were _crying_ ," Kenny says, and Kyle knows the scratches didn't make it, or he'd be really livid. But he recognises that tone, knows he's mad, mad at himself. Because if he missed something, something that upset him so much, then it's his fault. Heroes love to blame themselves, or at least in Kenny's case. Living in an abusive household for eighteen years engrains that self-degradation deep.

" _Kenny_ ," It hurts to speak like this, but then again Kyle doesn't know how he should be speaking. All things natural are, in these moments, unnatural, and he can't even tell what he's doing wrong. He isn't even fully awake yet, and already he has to face this. Look into Kenny's eyes and tell him that a goddamn devil raped him as he slept, with a straight face.

Kenny frowns, lips tightly pressed together. He knows he can't argue with him, can't force it out. He only ever did that once, the impetus of their very first fight, because Kenny kept asking Kyle if his parents were okay with their whole relationship thing, noting how Kyle kept urging Kenny to tone it down around his parents, not realising then that Kyle hadn't mentioned it to them. They screamed sitting on the railroad tracks for half an hour before Kyle stormed off. Kenny thought that was it right then and there, until he got a text a couple hours later telling him to come over, so he could show Shelia and Gerald 'the new wardrobe he found in the closet'. After that Kyle made him promise not to do that again, and he thinks of his imploring eyes now to convince himself not to press him.

Kyle clears his throat, swallows, but his mouth still tastes like sin. He pushes his shoulders back, raises his head, as though striking a pose might quiet his stomach. The nutty smell wafts over, tickles his nostrils, and he hates how he can't enjoy it as he normally does. He moves his hand across his lap, glances down to see how far the mug is.

But he freezes, when his eyes see five fingers spread, five thin fingers, unadorned and ordinary, on his left hand. His left hand, the hand that should, on his ring finger, have a band, two rows of silver and an inlet of dark metal, and one diamond like a button. His hand starts shaking, knowing full well what happened, remembering how Damien held his hand and presented his ring to him. He must not have noticed that—

"He took it," Kyle whispers, as it hits him. As if what he did wasn't bad enough, dragging him while he slept and raping him, he stole his ring, too. His ring, the one that signified his engagement, Damien took it as a trophy, his way of asserting his claim on Kyle. Somehow he took the ring, _he took the damn ring._

"What?" Kenny asks, not hearing him. His eyes flit to Kyle's hand, sees the ring absent. But he doesn't know, doesn't know why. He goes to logic first, thinking the ring—despite its custom fit—slipped off as they tossed and turned, either hidden in the sheets or on the floor. _He doesn't know_ , "Ky', babe, it's probably—"

" _He took it_ ," Kyle repeats, louder, over Kenny's explanation, over the reason he knows won't apply. That's all he can think—he took it he took it he took it—over and over again, running through his mind. He blinks, a wall of water between his eyes and lids, teetering on bursting. The cold creeps back into his bones.

"Who took it?" There's a twinge of fear, in his voice, scared of how sharp his words are, given razor edges by anxiety. He talks like this just before a panic attack. And the longer looks, seeing how wobbly Kyle appears, how the colour drains from his face, his eyes flutter and widen, the more terrified he gets. Because he just melts down, turns to watery putty running down the storm drain, and it scares him shitless. Because Kenny can't do anything for him, to protect him.

As Kenny turns, places the cups on the nightstand, and Kyle balances the name on the tip of his tongue. It totters back and forth, but he just can't say it. There's something newly horrifying about uttering that name, letting it come to life on his lips. That gives it meaning, gives it truth, two things Kyle doesn't want him to have. But he can't deny it, unable to say right now that the cold he feels and the metal he takes is his imagination. His mind isn't sick enough for this to be his imagination.

Those red eyes appear, before his own, the eyes he ensured would be a scab on the back of his eyelids, a blister on his brain cells. The eyes of the one who disregarded his humanity and treated him as a plaything, then threw him aside when all the fun was had, so he could watch from his lair as Kenny wondered why Kyle was broken. Kyle doesn't want to say that, say he's broken. Maybe damaged or breaking, those sound better. He won't accept the possible finality tied with broken.

Kenny puts one arm around him, gingerly, unsure whether his touch would trigger it. All the tips warn not to make unexpected contact, an understandable tip; but Kyle calms down when he has someone there, right there, caging him in an embrace so he doesn't turn the victim of the unpredictable impulses.

Kyle shivers, at the touch, because he feels it, but not like before. There's a layer of ice Kenny's heat has to thaw. Damien put it there, when he made his marks, his cuts and discolorations. But the deprivation of having the fullness of his hold, that's what hurts most, more than the pain and the questions and the feelings. That's what busts the dam and bring back the tears.

He falls, falls right onto Kenny's chest, forehead to his collarbone. Tears wet his heart, sobs rival the its throbbing, and even though the frost is there Kenny feels the pain. That's all he understands, as he holds him tight, the excruciating pain, pain he can't protect him from. He can only feel it, now, as Kyle's bawling mixes with the rain's lament. Lightning flashes in the distance, as he laces his fingers in his hair, supporting his head. And he's never felt so helpless.

* * *

Translation of Damien's Hebrew at the beginning: _Te'ahm et ha'dahmee_ \- Drink my blood ; _V'shaleim et ha'minchah_ \- And complete the tribute ; _Tan lee ha'coh'cha_ \- Give to me your power/strength

A/N: This is a (super late) birthday gift for my wonderful pal, Courtanie. I really hope I did justice to her reputation with my humble attempts. And I hope you, the reader, enjoyed reading it. I hope to hear your thoughts, and maybe see you in other stories that are less violating. Oh, an happy new year!


End file.
